Once Upon a Time
by Sunny Bunches of Oats
Summary: Many parts of Yuri's life felt like a fairytale, but it didn't end as one.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Neither Kyou Kara Maou nor any of its characters belong to me.

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **Yuri/Wolfram

**Warnings: **Major character death. Mild smut. Angst.

* * *

><p><em>And you as well must die, beloved dust,<em>

_And all your beauty stand you in no stead;_

_This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,_

_This body of flame and steel, before the gust_

_Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,_

_Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead_

_Than the first leaf that fell—this wonder fled._

_Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost._

_Nor shall my love avail you in your hour._

_In spite of all my love, you will arise_

_Upon that day and wander down the air_

_Obscurely as the unattended flower,_

_It mattering not how beautiful you were,_

_Or how beloved above all else that dies._

"And you as well must die," Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

><p><strong><em>Once Upon a Time<em>  
><strong>

**Part 1**

One day, long after he was dead and gone, Yuri was sure some intrepid biographer would think to write of his life as if it were a fairytale.

It would begin, as all such stories tended to, once upon a time.

_Four millennia following the death of His Most Illustrious Majesty the Great One, there came a boy from the world of Earth to take his rightful place upon the throne of this our Great Demon Kingdom._

There would be adventure...

_Thus His Majesty the 27__th__ King charged forth into the boiling water of the spring which topped the dormant volcano, and pulled from its depths Morgif, the mighty Demon Sword of legend._

… and mystery...

_For many hundreds of years the Demon Flute eluded all those to take up the quest, until His Majesty the 27__th__ King ventured into the brutal deserts of Svelera. But the Demon Flute was not the only lost artifact to be found in this desolate nation, as Lord GegenHuber Grisela of the House Voltaire was to learn firsthand._

… and, naturally, romance.

_Upon the steps to Covenant Castle there stood a young man of heavenly beauty. Then a mere eighty-two, the youngest and arguably the most esteemed of Her Majesty Queen _Cäcilie'_s sons, Lord Wolfram von Bielefelt could not have fathomed the great heights to which he would soon rise. For by the brilliant luster of his golden hair, the vibrant emerald of his fierce gaze, and the refined beauty of his adolescent features, he had come to the undivided attention of His Majesty the 27__th__ King. Before the evening could reach its conclusion, His Majesty would request Lord Wolfram's hand in marriage._

But it would be a farce.

His life had been nothing like that. Like Günter's elaborate and joyous praise, such a biography would no doubt rely on exaggeration to make the tale even more fantastical. Sure, he'd found Morgif in that volcano, but the real story wasn't nearly as daring. The Demon Flute, too, had been more of an accidental find than a legitimate quest, and none of them had _really_ wanted to seek out the Forbidden Boxes until it had become a necessity to do so.

Of course, over the years there had been occasions when Yuri himself thought his life to be a bit like a fairytale. After all, he _had_ been transported to another world, he _did_ become the King of the Great Demon Kingdom, and _yes_, there was that whole matter about being engaged to a Prince, unintentional as it might have been at the time (a fact everyone but Yuri tended to overlook), but he had always known fairytales to have happy endings.

Cinderella escaped the cruelty of her Step-Mother and the evil Step-Sisters when she was whisked away by her handsome Prince. Sleeping Beauty awakened from her eternal slumber by the power of True Love's Kiss. Harry Potter destroyed all the Horcruxes and managed to defeat Voldemort with a rebounded Killing Curse.

Alright, so the last one wasn't a true fairytale, but that wasn't entirely the point.

The point was, his life didn't end the way most fairytales did. Sure, he inherited the crown, and he found the legendary sword, and he married the handsome Prince, but that was where the similarities ended.

Once upon a time he fell headfirst into an epic adventure complete with knights and dragons and menacing evil. He won the Prince, tamed the dragon, and brought peace to a war-wearied world.

But he never knew a happily ever after.

**_To be Continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Neither Kyou Kara Maou nor any of its characters belong to me.

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **Yuri/Wolfram

**Warnings: **Major character death. Mild smut. Angst.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Once Upon a Time<strong>_

**Part 2**

It began the day Conrad placed himself between Wolfram and a bandit's sword.

This would not have been an entirely remarkable occasion had the sword itself not become lodged in Conrad's shoulder. Bandits were, unfortunately, not an uncommon occurrence even in peacetime, and Yuri had long grown accustomed to attracting trouble. Conrad was also no stranger to injury; his body was littered with scars—from swords, from arrows, and of course no one could forget the loss of his arm, however brief such a loss might have been. However, neither of those considerations were what made this an event worth remarking upon. Rather, it was that Conrad had made an effort to intervene at all.

"_You fool_!" Wolfram's voice was shrill in the depths of an otherwise quiet forest.

Conrad sat upon the stump of a fallen tree, bared from the waist up as Yuri applied pressure to his wounded shoulder with one hand and the soothing warmth of healing magic with the other. No one paid any attention to the broken branches and scattered leaves strewn across the ground in Yuri's notorious mark of Justice—all but the bandits, who by now had been restrained, their faces frozen in terror. The rest of Yuri's traveling party of soldiers wasted no time in herding them off. Likely they intended to transport them to the capital where Gwendal would surely insist that they be punished for their crimes.

Wolfram stood behind Yuri, his proximity uncomfortably close—not because Yuri was unused to such little distance between them (the years had allowed him the time to adapt to Wolfram's frequent invasions of his personal space), but because Yuri received the full force of Wolfram's shouting. Heroically, Yuri placed himself between the two brothers in an attempt to save his Godfather from the brunt of the tantrum, thereby suffering the abuse to his ears.

At this point in a fairytale the protagonist might dwell upon the inherent beauty of his or her future spouse, and though Yuri was no stranger to such idle thoughts, half a decade with Wolfram had taught him to adopt a bit of realism. To say that Wolfram's hair was like spun gold and his eyes were like the finest emerald's would be a bit overdone, and seemed contrived even by Yuri's standards. Oh, yes, Wolfram was a very pretty young man, there was no doubt in anyone's mind about that, and Yuri had certainly done his fair share of admiring. But Wolfram was as real a being as any other, and no real being had yet to attain perfection.

The truth was somewhat less vivid than popular consensus. If one took that vibrant image that often came to mind when thinking about their Golden Prince and diluted it, one would then have a more approximate image. Wolfram's hair was a much lighter (and duller) blonde. His eyes were more of a murky sea-green than truly emerald. His skin was pale, too, but not quite like fine porcelain, for he burned easily (and pealed as a result) and his complexion was often blotchy with emotion and occasionally spotted by adolescent acne. And he was _skinny_. Beneath that perfectly pressed uniform were hidden a set of knobby knees and pointed elbows under lean, wiry muscle.

Wolfram was a walking, talking contradiction—a spitfire youth prone to ugly behavior who was nonetheless breathtakingly beautiful in his own way. Not perfect, as already noted, but then Yuri thought imperfection to be far more appealing. Wolfram was spoiled, temperamental, demanding, his redeeming qualities often lost beneath those very notable flaws until one took the time necessary to get to know him. He hid selflessness beneath arrogance and compassion beneath anger. Ceaselessly proud, Wolfram was (in Yuri's mind) the epitome of Demon Tribe royalty.

But he was also dangerous. More than he feared the sharp point of Wolfram's sword, Yuri feared the fire. Already part of their area of forest had been partially scorched, the burning underbrush still smoking after Yuri's water had extinguished it. Wolfram radiated a flameless heat at Yuri's back, spitting his vehemence over Yuri's shoulder.

"There was _no need_ for you to intervene! Your carelessness could have gotten Yuri _killed_."

"Wolf," Yuri said in what he hoped was a placating tone, though it likely carried a trace of annoyance, "you're overreacting."

"_Overreacting_?! As if _Conrart _isn't guilty of a little _overreaction_!"

Conrad simply graced Wolfram with one of his placid smiles.

"_Is that all you have to say for yourself_?!" Wolfram bellowed.

"I apologize," Conrad said. He didn't sound the least bit sorry.

Wolfram released a wordless shriek of rage and flung himself away from them, turning swiftly on his heel to march off and take his foul mood elsewhere. He stomped over Yuri's symbol of Justice, scattering twigs and leaves, and began snarling orders at the soldiers, who stood straight and bowed stiffly in response. The bandits flinched back and cowered nearly as much as they had before the Demon King.

Yuri's heavy sigh was of both resignation and relief. With Wolfram no longer breathing down his neck he could focus more intently upon Conrad's shoulder. Slowly he eased away the hand he had pressed against the wound, noting that the blood had stopped flowing as freely. His palm was covered in it, but he paid it little mind. As much as he abhorred violence, he had grown used to the results of living in such a violent world.

"Now he's going to rant the rest of the way home," Yuri said, his voice low so that it wouldn't carry. He switched his tone to a snooty countertenor that was nevertheless a rather poor imitation of Wolfram. "'I don't _need_ you to defend me! I'm a _soldier_! You think I can't handle a few _bandits_?!_ I can take care of myself_!'"

Conrad chuckled. He sat patiently while Yuri dug some bandages out of one of their traveling packs. All the while Conrad showed no signs of pain or discomfort. Yuri wrapped his shoulder to the best of his abilities—which weren't much, but still better than nothing.

"Gisela can take a look at it when we get back," he said needlessly.

Without Wolfram there to distract him and keep him on his toes, Yuri's mood fell to concern.

He stood back once he was done and watched as Conrad shrugged his bloodstained shirt and jacket back up his arms. Still Conrad's face showed no sign of distress. The movement of his injured arm was somewhat stiff and stilted, yet his expression was entirely at ease. He smiled his thanks and patted Yuri's shoulder with the opposite hand.

Yuri stopped him before Conrad could turn to save the soldiers and bandits from Wolfram's fury.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked. "Wolfram's right. He can handle a few bandits."

Certainly it wasn't like Conrad to react so concernedly. Little brother or no, Conrad was not one to interfere in Wolfram's battles unless circumstances required that he do so—either in defense of Yuri himself, or to settle a personal score. Yuri couldn't recall a similar circumstance in the last five years. Hell, he'd had to _order_ Conrad to follow Wolfram down the Sand Bear's trap in Svelera. At the time he'd thought Conrad's hesitance somewhat callous, but the years had taught him better.

Conrad trusted Wolfram's abilities far more than Wolfram ever gave him credit for.

Which made this situation all the more bizarre.

The answer Yuri received betrayed nothing. Conrad's smile remained in place, though his eyes looked beyond Yuri toward Wolfram's prim figure.

"He was tiring," Conrad said.

He stepped around Yuri to call Wolfram off and see to preparing their escort for departure. Yuri stared at Conrad's back confusedly, looking from Conrad to Wolfram as the two stood overseeing the bandits' restraints.

For the life of him, Yuri couldn't figure out what Conrad meant. Wolfram's face was flushed and his breathing was somewhat heavy, but Yuri thought it had more to do with Wolfram's tantrum than with the quick skirmish. As Yuri watched, Wolfram's eyes flashed dangerously and his voice rose into a roar. Such behavior was not at all uncommon. In fact, Yuri would have been far more concerned if Wolfram had reacted any differently. Even going over his memories of the bandit attack provided little evidence to support Conrad's explanation.

To Yuri, less experienced as he was with a sword, Wolfram had been holding his own just fine. He'd attacked with his usual reckless passion, disarming one bandit and calling his fire on another. Had Conrad not placed himself between Wolfram and the third, Yuri was sure the battle would have ended with no blood drawn whatsoever.

"_Yuri_!" Wolfram suddenly shouted. "Let's go!"

Yuri gave a start, wiping his bloodied hand along his pant leg (he could already imagine the wailing Günter would greet him with once they returned). He made his way toward Ao before Wolfram could forcefully usher him back into the saddle, stealing glances between the two brothers as they too climbed back onto their respective horses.

He shook the confusion from his mind as they departed. After all, other than Conrad's intervention, it was just another ordinary day.

**_To Be Continued..._**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Neither Kyou Kara Maou nor any of its characters belong to me.

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **Yuri/Wolfram

**Warnings: **Major character death. Mild smut. Angst.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Once Upon a Time<em>**

**Part 3**

Alcohol was the beverage of choice in the Great Demon Kingdom.

Yuri suspected that was the case for much of the world, but as he wasn't as well versed with the customs of other countries as he was with those of the Great Demon Kingdom (which still baffled him from time to time), he tended to think of such things with a much more narrow viewpoint. He understood the reasons for the consumption, of course. Uncontaminated drinking water was not always in ample supply.

Thus he grew accustomed to the steady flow of alcohol in the castle. He knew Gwendal was fond of liquor, particularly whisky, and Yuri was no stranger to the sight of Conrad and Josak sharing a bottle of brandy between them. Günter favored mead and fine wine, but had consumed his fair share of cheap tavern ale during their travels. Wolfram, surprisingly enough, was the least fussy of the bunch. He was also the least able to hold his alcohol and therefore drank little of it, reserving it for holidays and other such special occasions.

For five years Yuri refused to touch a single drop of alcohol. He was wary of what it might do to his body, conscious as he was about his athleticism, and even more wary of what it might do to his mind. He had spring water shipped to the castle instead (his one indulgence as King, and one he shared with Wolfram). Otherwise he settled for boiling it for tea, or paired his meals with pulpy fruit juices. What curiosity Yuri might have felt he banished with an insistence that bordered on stubbornness. When visitors came bearing the gift of exotic alcoholic beverages, they ultimately found their way into Gwendal's or Günter's hands.

But once he turned twenty and reached the age of majority in Japan, his stringent denial of alcohol began to ease, and he allowed himself to indulge during the same occasions that found Wolfram with a goblet of wine at hand. Never enough to hinder his daily exercise regimen, and certainly not enough to cause irreparable damage to his body, but there were times when he returned to his room a bit tipsy after a party, Wolfram stumbling through the door with him.

Perhaps that was one of his reasons for partaking in what he'd denied himself for so long, but what everyone else viewed as customary. Alcohol made Gwendal slightly more affectionate, Günter somewhat more mellow, Josak more crude, and it caused Conrad to brood. For Yuri it calmed his anxieties, dulled the thoughts that often raced through his mind half-formed. Troubles seemed distant, reality a bit hazy, and things that otherwise seemed so complicated were suddenly so very simple.

Wolfram was much the same, he'd learned. There was a marked decrease in his inhibitions.

Long fingers sunk into Yuri's dark hair, holding him in place while Wolfram's eager mouth pressed against his own.

Yuri couldn't be bothered to think about the implications. Oh, sure, the _denial _was still going strong, and the confusion and fear still ran rampant, but the alcohol dulled it for a time—long enough for curiosity to overcome the usual sense of panic and dread, curiosity he typically ignored and forced down in favor of going about his life the way he thought it should proceed. Sober Yuri insisted upon a healthy interest in girls, but Tipsy Yuri didn't think Wolfram was really so bad. And, anyway, it was just _kissing_. Kissing didn't have to have any bearing on his sexuality.

The room was dimply lit by candlelight, quiet but for the soft fall of rain beyond the windows. It would have been romantic if either of them knew the first thing about romance. Yuri wouldn't know how to court someone even if he'd had a manual providing him with detailed instructions (he'd never been much of a reader, after all), and Wolfram was too impatient and far too guarded with himself for romantic overtures. Instead they settled on a routine. They shared a bottle of wine between them at a dinner party, chatted freely about meaningless things while their guests danced, and the kissing commenced without a word only once the door to Yuri's room had closed.

Wolfram was always the first to initiate it. Sometimes it was immediate, with Yuri pressed to the door and Wolfram standing in the circle of his arms. Other times it occurred with less urgency—curled up on the plush settee by the fire with what remained of their shared bottle of wine, side by side on the window-seat that overlooked the moonlit gardens, or up against the wardrobe on those occasions that Wolfram helped Yuri out of his formal cape and crown.

_Never_ did they take it to the bed, comfortable as Yuri's addled mind thought it would be, and _never _did their hands stray lower than their waists. In fact, Wolfram's often remained up high, tangled in Yuri's hair or pressed to the sides of Yuri's face. Yuri's tended to travel more, to Wolfram's neck, to his shoulders and arms, to his back, touching through layers of clothing and imagining what it might feel like if he were ever brave enough to slip his hands beneath them.

Tonight Wolfram backed into the edge of an antique writing desk, one hand in Yuri's hair and the other pressed flat against the wooden surface, holding himself upright by sheer force of will. Yuri held himself mere inches away; their only points of contact were their mouths and hands. Yuuri's hands descended to Wolfram's waist, his fingers stubbornly clenched into the fabric of Wolfram's jacket, as if by doing so he could keep them rooted there indefinitely and minimize the risk of seeking uncharted territory. Their kisses were a sloppily executed tangle of tongues, the sort of vulgar kissing Wolfram only initiated when he drank too much.

He could never tell if Wolfram's drinking was purposeful. Yuri's certainly was. He used the alcohol as a scapegoat. It was easier to blame the drinking than it was to take a step back and examine his own sexuality.

"Yuri..."

It was the only thing Wolfram ever said. Just his name, and so quietly Yuri often struggled to hear it.

"Yuri... _Yuri_..."

Yuri never said anything. It was a practice in stubborn restraint, very much like the unadventurous path of his hands. Speaking would only disrupt the alcoholic haze and bring him back to reality. Speaking meant _thinking_, and thinking meant he had to process whatever it was that was occurring between them, take a good, hard look at it (and at himself) and come to terms with the things he'd been avoiding for five years.

The engagement, for one. Whatever his feelings might be for Wolfram. Their future together or apart. And how these nights made him _feel—_his emotions, his physical responses.

"_Yuri_..."

Wolfram moaned low in his throat, and Yuri's pants felt increasingly (embarrassingly) uncomfortable.

He might not initiate these encounters himself, but in the midst of them Yuri always gave as good as he got. Wolfram's responses were both exciting and intriguing. The way his breath caught; the way he moaned, unabashed in a way he never was when they were sober; the way his fingers dug into Yuri's scalp; the way he leaned and tossed his head back and dragged Yuri's head down, exaggerating the scant few extra inches twenty years of human aging and awarded Yuri.

Yuri didn't make a sound.

It lasted only minutes. Once as long as a quarter of an hour, but never more. Just long enough for the tension to ebb—a brief period of indulgence for them both.

"Stop," Wolfram whispered when their lips parted.

Yuri inched forward. His mouth sought out Wolfram's again.

"Stop," Wolfram said more firmly, and turned his head to the side. Yuri's lips found Wolfram's cheek instead. "Enough."

Wolfram was always the one to initiate it, and the one who ultimately brought it to an end.

They parted without discussion, without explanation. One moment they were in the midst of a passionate embrace, and the next they acted as if nothing of the sort had happened. Wolfram straightened his clothing and kept his eyes lowered; the hand that had supported him trembled slightly when he removed it from the table. Yuri stood still, dazed.

Wolfram's face was flushed, the color darkest in his cheeks, his hair somewhat disheveled and his lips swollen. He licked them compulsively, a nervous habit, and cleared his throat of whatever emotion these encounters dredged up in him.

It always ended the same. Wolfram ducked away without another word and went to the wardrobe. There he collected his nightclothes and held them to him as he made for the door. He whispered a quiet "good night" and slipped out before Yuri could think to stop him. The first night Yuri thought he'd gone for a bath, but when Wolfram never returned Yuri knew he'd gone to his own room—the one he rarely ever used.

He left Yuri to his thoughtless solitude, and to the unfulfilling services of his own hand.

At daybreak, once the effects of the wine had faded away, Yuri always told himself what happened between them on those nights didn't mean anything, that he'd simply done what many people his age did when under the influence with a willing partner. But in the midst of it, when their mouths touched—sometimes softly, sedate; sometimes open, urgent, and passionate—and their hands held on to one another, a hidden part of Yuri's consciousness could admit that he enjoyed it.

_**To Be Continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Neither Kyou Kara Maou nor any of its characters belong to me.

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **Yuri/Wolfram

**Warnings: **Major character death. Mild smut. Angst.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Once Upon a Time<em>**

**Part 4**

Often, Yuri liked the pretend that the coming-of-age part of his story was over.

He was, after all, twenty years old, and a man by the standards of his homeland. If he still felt like a boy it was only because the people that made up his core group of friends and advisors liked to coddle him. Try as he might to be an active presence in the Kingdom, frequently thrusting himself into the thick of things in an effort to right the Kingdom's wrongs and make himself accessible to his people, he was nonetheless stringently protected—perpetually accompanied by an armed guard (whether he noticed them or not), and apprised of hostile situations only once his advisors had made an adequate survey of them and decided upon the preferred course of action.

If there was one thing Yuri prided himself on, it was his growth. He still had room to improve in a physical sense, of course. Average as he thought himself to be, and in spite of the compliments and praise often showered upon him, he never learned to take pride in his appearance. After all, he'd not attained the impressive height he'd always wanted, and the oft longed for six-pack proved itself to be an elusive goal.

But he'd learned much in five years. He could read and write in the native language of the Great Demon Kingdom almost as easily as he could speak it, and if his writing was never as neat or refined as Wolfram's or Günter's or Gwendal's, it was at least legible. He could converse with foreign dignitaries in a passable manner, never as eloquent as he wanted to be, but he exuded a welcomeness and charm that made it possible to overlook his lack of formality. He was a peaceable King, warm, loving, and generous; he brought a certain vitality and liveliness to the Kingdom that once it sorely lacked.

He was a young King with young allies and equally young courtiers, and the more comfortable he became with his place in the world, the more his Kingdom thrived.

And yet, there remained areas in his life that still required some improvement.

"Wait, wait, hold up a bit!"

Yuri panted under the stifling heat of a noon sun. Sweat coated his forehead, dampening his hair. A few strands clung to his temples; the rest was matted and wild. His jacket and shirt had long been discarded. His skin glowed with a summer tan, though his shoulders and the back of his neck felt burned from overexposure.

Morgif groaned impatiently, the point of his blade stuck in the dirt as Yuri dropped to the ground, his hand slipping from Morgif's hilt. He rubbed at his palm with the opposite thumb and cracked the stiffness from his fingers, shaking his hand free of any lingering soreness. Though the skin had long turned rough with callouses, he remained no match for Wolfram's relentless offensive.

A pair of dirty brown boots stepped into Yuri's line of sight. Quickly Wolfram sheath his sword, propping his hands onto his hips and glaring down his nose at Yuri. Years ago Yuri's position at Wolfram's feet might have made Yuri feel quite inferior, but these days it left him nothing short of amused, for he knew Wolfram enjoyed the opportunity to stand there looking impressive. Wolfram struggled to show an expression of displeasure, his lips quirking into a smug smirk.

Wolfram, too, had stripped of his outer layers, his ascot and jacket currently absent. The white silk shirt he wore beneath hung loose on his frame, the first few buttons undone to expose some of the blotchy skin of his chest. Even so, he looked somewhat better put together than Yuri. His hair was only slightly disheveled, his posture still prim and proper despite his fatigue. He even sweated prissily, pulling a monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket to dab at his forehead.

"Let's take a break," Yuri suggested.

"You're giving up?" Wolfram challenged. The smirk on his face grew wider.

Yuri's teeth clenched in mild frustration. Wolfram knew how to egg him on and seemed to relish in the opportunity.

"No," Yuri denied. "But we've been going at it for the last hour."

"This is why you've hardly improved at all. You put a stop to it as soon as you get uncomfortable. You think a real opponent would care that you're hot and tired?"

"Conrad was a better teacher."

"Conrart babies you," Wolfram insisted. Yuri's attempt to get under his skin didn't seem to phase him at all. "In any case, Conrart is incapable of teaching you magic."

Yuri made a face that likely seemed petulant. He decided not to verbalize the correction that Wolfram wasn't _teaching him magic _so much as he was _attacking him_ until he had no other choice but to _use _magic as a means of defending himself.

If he was no better with his sword these five years since acquiring Morgif, he was no better at maintaining control of magic for extended periods of time without slipping into the semi-consciousness that brought forth a transformation. Water and healing were by far his strong suits, the latter easier to utilize without succumbing to the Demon King than the former. Wind was only somewhat more difficult, with Earth trailing a measure behind, but fire was nearly impossible. He had mild control when Wolfram summoned it for him, but Yuri was rarely able to call it forth himself beyond the lighting of a candle.

It allowed Wolfram to gloat.

Yuri had yet to decide which was more aggravating—the manner in which his fiancé ranted when he was displeased, or the manner in which Wolfram relished his victories. Each attitude was equally bothersome, the former because Yuri often had to deal with the brunt of the ranting and the latter because Wolfram knew exactly which buttons to push to set Yuri off.

Oh, he wasn't _angry _so much as he was _determined_. Competitive by nature, Yuri wasn't one to let a challenge go without making an attempt to meet it. Wolfram knew this, of course, and he sought amusement in Yuri's failure if only for the opportunity it presented him to bask in his own superiority.

"Look at you," Wolfram observed. "You look pathetic. You'll never learn if you keep conceding with hardly any eff—"

Yuri took a chance while Wolfram was busy with his lecture. With reflexes honed from baseball and the sprightliness of youth, he was back on his feet with Morgif in hand before Wolfram could complete his sentence. For a split second Yuri thought he saw a flash of astonishment in Wolfram's eyes. Morgif crowed victoriously, swinging through the air toward Wolfram's neck.

He meant to stop millimeter's before coming into contact with Wolfram's skin.

He never got close enough.

If Yuri was quick, Wolfram was quicker. Wolfram had his sword out again to block him in a fraction of the time it had taken Yuri to spring from the ground. They stared at one another beyond their locked blades. Yuri gnashed his teeth together in irritation. Wolfram returned the look with another smirk.

"Damn it, Wolf! _Fine! _Whatever, I give up!"

Yuri pulled back to deliver one last frustrated (and equally ineffective) strike before plunging Morgif back into the ground and turning away to stomp through the dirt, dragging his hands through his sweaty hair before shaking his arms out in some ridiculous looking effort to work out some of the soreness and tension in his muscles.

Behind him, Wolfram cackled hysterically. He wasn't a boisterous laugher. There was no gut-busting to be seen, no rolling around on the ground. Wolfram, naturally, would never be so inelegant. He sheathed his sword again and propped his hands back onto his hips and tossed his head to the side in a pose that would have looked quite fetching if Yuri had been in the mood to admire him.

Instead, Yuri was quite content to release his frustrations by kicking a few rocks. He turned to pelt one in Wolfram's direction, but it skidded right by Wolfram's boot without leaving so much as a scratch on the leather.

Morgif joined in on Wolfram's laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, I'm a piss poor swordsman, okay?" Yuri said. He tried to sneer like Wolfram did when dissatisfied, but it came off looking far more like a pout. He finished with a whined, "Do you have to rub it in?"

"You're so easily frustrated," Wolfram observed through his cackling.

"Wonder where I learned that from," Yuuri snarked back.

Wolfram's breath stuttered on another laugh. It caught in his throat and brought forth a rather harsh round of coughing, effectively cutting his amusement short.

Yuuri snorted. _Inelegantly._ He figured he'd already established he was nothing like Wolfram.

"That's what you get for laughing," he said. "You choke on your own spit."

Wolfram glared and brought a hand to his chest. He coughed a few more times to clear his airways, his face red from exertion and too much sunlight.

Putting his anger aside as quickly as it had come, Yuuri grabbed Morgif to return the Demon Sword to its proper sheath, patting Wolfram on the back as he passed him by on his way to collect their discarded clothing. Wolfram rolled his eyes at the gesture but calmed some, rubbing the rest of the discomfort from his chest.

"We're done, right?" Yuuri asked.

Wolfram cleared his throat of any strain before answering, "It's been little more than an hour and you've hardly made use of your magic."

"It's fine," Yuuri shrugged. "We'll just do magic tomorrow. No swords."

"Hmmm, yes, that would benefit you, wouldn't it?"

Yuuri grinned, all signs of frustration lost beneath the return of his usual jovial mood. "Water versus fire. Those seem like good odds to me."

He gave Wolfram's shoulder a light shove as they turned to make their way inside. Wolfram shoved him back half-heartedly. Yuuri chuckled while Morgif made disappointed noises at his hip. Wolfram coughed a few more times before his breathing finally seemed to settle.

"Karma," Yuuri observed cheekily.

Wolfram showed him an unconcerned frown.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Neither Kyou Kara Maou nor any of its characters belong to me.

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **Yuri/Wolfram

**Warnings: **Major character death. Mild smut. Angst.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Once Upon a Time<em>**

**Part 5**

In October, Wolfram let himself into Yuri's office with an armful of scrolls and stacks of parchment, unceremoniously dropped them onto the table that sat beyond Yuri's desk, and plopped himself into the chair closest to Yuri's work space to make himself comfortable. His posture was as prim as always, his legs crossed beneath the table, his expression notably fussy as he begin riffling through whatever it was he'd brought with him.

Yuri showed him a wary glance, looking up from his paperwork to witness the display.

"More paperwork?" he asked cautiously.

"Not this time," Wolfram said.

Relieved though he may be to hear it, the decisive tone of Wolfram's voice did not allow Yuri to relax.

"What then?" Yuri asked.

"Don't you think it's time we put together the guest list?"

"... huh?"

Yuri wracked his brain to determine which event or banquet he'd forgotten this time and was vaguely concerned when nothing immediately came to mind. There was no holiday approaching any time in the near future that he could remember, and it was no longer the season for travel. He didn't expect guests of any sort to make their way to Covenant Castle for quite some time, what with winter right around the corner.

But Wolfram was giving him a pointed look, which could only mean he'd missed something. Wolfram straightened in his chair, peering at Yuri like he expected Yuri to be mature about something he didn't often face with maturity.

Which could only mean on thing.

"For the wedding," Wolfram said.

Unease suffused Yuri's being, as it always did whenever the topic in question was brought into any conversation. He swallowed down a nervous lump and shifted in his chair which hadn't been nearly as uncomfortable before, glancing off to the side like he thought he might find something to help him avoid the encounter.

"Günter says this year's almanac shows we're in for a bad winter," he said uselessly.

"_Yuri_," Wolfram stressed, "you are not going to avoid this conversation any longer."

"What conversation?" Yuri tried and failed to sound innocent.

"_The wedding_."

_The_ wedding. Not _our_ wedding. _The._ Wolfram said it with such a certainty and finality that Yuri was almost convinced that it would actually happen.

"Come on, Wolf, do we really have to talk about this now?" Yuri griped, riffling through the paperwork on his dest in an attempt to find something distracting enough to keep his mind off of what they were talking about.

"When else do you expect we'll talk about it?" Wolfram challenged him.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" There was a subtle rise in Wolfram's voice that Yuri recognized as one he gained whenever he lifted a disbelieving brow.

"Or next year..."

"_Yuri_..."

"... or the year after that..."

"It's been five years," Wolfram informed him.

"Has it?" Yuri said. He forced a laugh like he was surprised to hear it. "Wow, it doesn't feel like it's been that long, does it?"

The heels of Wolfram's boots struck the floor with a sharp '_click_.'

Yuri gave a start and looked up; his hand hung in mid-air on its way toward another pile of paperwork. The fierce look on Wolfram's face made him cringe, and he sunk back in his chair as Wolfram approached the desk to place his hands flat on top, leaning over in a strained attempt to infringe upon Yuri's personal space.

"You never took it back," Wolfram said.

"You never let me," Yuri countered weakly.

"Do you take it back now?"

"There's no right answer to that question, is there?"

Wolfram adopted a severe frown that drew on what minimal resemblance he had to Gwendal.

Yuri winced and sunk further into his chair.

"What do you want me to say, Wolf?" he asked.

"I want you to assume some responsibility for your actions."

"Haven't I?"

"I'll leave you to answer that question."

Wolfram stopped looming over the desk to assume one of his typically arrogant poses, removing his hands from the polished surface as he straightened his back. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared Yuri down without an ounce of sympathy or compassion. Wolfram's expression was both expectant and accusing. If he was hurt by any of Yuri's attempts to dismiss the topic, he didn't show it—more concerned, it seemed, by propriety than emotion.

Of course, Yuri knew that wasn't the case, he simply didn't enjoy thinking about it. The thought of being married to Wolfram wasn't as unappealing as it used to be. Certainly there were worse candidates out there, and Yuri did feel rather fond of Wolfram when he could get over the denial long enough to make a few admissions. They'd long grown into their friendship, comfortably casual with one another in a way Yuri hadn't quite managed with many others.

But it was entirely platonic—except for those nights they went back to Yuri's room tipsy after parties, but Yuri didn't often like to think about that during daylight hours if he could help it. It made him feel... strange. Not terrible, but not really very comfortable either. And Wolfram had _feelings_ for him. Yuri knew that, had known it for a while despite how desperately he tried not to let it weigh on his mind. Wolfram didn't show it often, and he verbalized his feelings even less, but it had become something of an understanding between them over the years.

"Look... Wolf..." Yuri tried, but had no idea what he meant to say.

"It wasn't an accident to me," Wolfram said.

"Right... I know..."

"Do you?"

"Yeah..."

"Then you're saying you have no desire to marry me," Wolfram assumed.

There was a brief flicker of hurt in Wolfram's eyes, but it was banished almost as soon as it appeared. His expression was stoney, his posture suddenly stiff.

"I..." Yuri stuttered. "I'm saying... we're kind of... _young,_... don't you think?"

"We're both adults."

"Right, but... I never really imagined myself... you know... _married_... at twenty."

"I'm sure you never imagined yourself to be the Demon King either," Wolfram observed.

It was not an inaccurate statement, but the comparison was hardly fair in Yuri's opinion. He brought a hand to his head to sink his fingers into his hair, scrubbing at his scalp in a show of frustration. Then he dropped his face into his palms, blocking Wolfram out long enough to think of something that wouldn't come across as hurtful.

"Can't we just... hold off a little longer?" he said.

When it doubt, he thought, put it off for another time.

"I'm not asking you to set a date yet," Wolfram told him.

That came as something of a relief. Yuri's shoulders sagged slightly.

"We'll have to discuss it at some point," Wolfram continued. "Before the invitations are sent, of course, but that can wait until after we've decided which guests to invite."

"And how long will that take?" Yuri wondered.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find plenty to argue about. If it's taken us five years to get to this point, I imagine the guest list will take just as long. You are notoriously slow, after all."

Wolfram's boots clicked along the floor again. Quiet shuffling met Yuri's ears as Wolfram settled himself back into his chair. Yuri peeked through the gaps between his fingers and watched as Wolfram began rummaging through the papers currently heaped upon the table. He lowered his hands entirely when the conversation seemed to draw to a merciful (though not entirely predictable) close.

Hesitantly Yuri hoisted himself back to his previously upright position in his chair, staring cautiously as Wolfram took a quill, dipped it in a pot of ink, and began scrawling notes on a blank sheet of parchment.

"That's it?" Yuri asked.

"Yes," Wolfram said.

"Oh..."

He mentally congratulated himself for surviving the encounter unscathed.

_**To be continued...**_


End file.
